spring has not sprung...just yet

I have a bone to pick with the vernal equinox. I know, I know, it is very scientifically based on the date that daylight and night are equal partners, and that's really great. But I get a little edgy when it claims to be the first day of spring. I don't care if the weather of the 19-21 of March is sunny and warm or freezing cold, dreary and wet---they have got to be the ugliest few days of the year up here in the northeastern US of A. When I think of spring I think of flowers, the return of songbirds, and the thousands of shades of green that come only when the foliage is new. But this week? This week is mud, mud, drab looking lawns, mud, remnants of snow plows digging up yards, salt stained roads, and more mud. We may be gaining daylight, and there may be a confused robin poking about, but you just can't call it spring. Not yet. 

I think spring should open on May 1st. The first week of May is always spectacular. By the 7th of May almost every tree is in some form of awakening with a haze of burgeoning leaves in yellow or pale red or green. Blossoms abound. The ground has firmed up after the cleansing month of April, and things look fresh and promising again. There have been enough pleasant days to get outdoors and clean up our yards. You could probably even push me back to the last week in April...but anything before that? Winter's last hurrah...mud-season. The only thing good about mud-season in the northeast? Maple syrup. Other than that, give me two feet of snow, or give me abundant flowers.

One of my favourite modern American poets wrote a poem about mud season. Jane Kenyon lived in the northeast for most of her adult life. Like me she was a transplant, but she grew to love this part of the country as her own. This is her poem about that ambiguous time between winter and true spring...

Mud Season

Here in purgatory bare ground

is visible, except in shady places

where snow prevails.

Still, each day sees

the restoration of another animal:

a sparrow, just now a sleepy wasp;

and, at twilight, the skunk

pokes out of the den,

anxious for mates and meals....

On the floor of the woodshed

the coldest imaginable ooze,

and soon the first shoots

of asparagus will rise,

the fingers of Lazarus....

Earth's open wounds---where the plow

gouged the ground last November---

must be smoothed; some sown 

with seed, and all forgotten.

Now the nuthatch spurns the suet,

resuming its diet of flies, and the mesh

bag, limp and greasy, might be taken

down.

Beside the porch step

the crocus prepares an exaltation

of purple, but for the moment

holds its tongue....

It's interesting, spring is the most celebrated and written about season by poets. Most of them drunk with the strewing of flowers, the theme of rebirth, spiritual resurrection. But one of my favourite poems about spring takes a different view.

Spring

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

To what purpose, April, do you return again?

Beauty is not enough.

You can no longer quiet me with the redness

Of little leaves opening stickily.

I know what I know.

The sun is hot on my neck as I observe

The spikes of the crocus.

The smell of the earth is good.

It is apparent that there is no death.

But what does that signify?

Not only under ground are the brains of men

Eaten by maggots.

Life in itself

Is nothing,

An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.

It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,

April

Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

Don't get me wrong...I'm not here to bash any season. I love them all (winter best) and it's just the naming of the equinox as the first day of spring that bothers me. After a Buffalo winter we are all ready for the longer days, and that in itself is something to celebrate...but spring? It's just not quite here. Maybe we could just say that the vernal equinox is like giving mother nature the green light; it's time to start thinking about spring, but let's not abandon the remnants of winter too soon. (The photos in this post were taken while visiting Joe Meyer, Norm Kehl and their friends and family at their sugar shack in Bennington, NY, which only confirmed my opinion that maple syrup is the best thing about mud season.)

Comments

[darlene]

gosh, i can't wait until its mud season here, we are still buried under many feet of snow!!

i agree, may should be the start of spring because naming it so soon only causes me heartache as i trudge through snow and ice ... ;-)

xo

[darlene]

p.s. most awesome photos!! i heart maple syrup!

[Jasmine]

there you are! hope you're feeling well...

i just finished dinner, and now, thanks to your inspiration, i am going to have a spoonful of maple syrup for dessert!

[Dave Trageser]

here in Tel Aviv, I like some maple syrup over my vanilla Ben and Jerry's, with some roasted, salted peanuts sprinkled on. Susanne says it won't be long before I gain back the 7 pounds I lost in India. lol

[robin'seggblue]

as a result of your brilliant invitation to infuse more poetry into our lives, i am now reading my favorite poets again and basking in the warmth of their familiar words. thank you! i had forgotten the power of those carefully crafted vignettes and the joy they bring. poetry had fallen to the wayside, but not anymore.
the mud season??! ha, no one says it better than e.e. cummings....
"The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful."
thanks again!!!